


Aftermarket Parts

by chaya



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/pseuds/chaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick's made it this long because he's accepted his limitations. The sole survivor isn't the kind to rest on her laurels when she can offer him something he's been missing.</p><p>(You might be wondering: is this an allusion to Nick getting a prosthetic dick? Yeah. Yeah it is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermarket Parts

**Author's Note:**

> This is made up of parts 1 and 2 from [my FO4 sideblog](http://buzzbites.tumblr.com/).

Nick had been self-conscious enough when Marlene, ever the engineer, had first suggested giving him upgrades beyond the usual skin and joint replacements from harvested Gen 2s. It was crystal clear that she was happy with him just as he was, but she was always looking for little ways to make him happy, and damn if that didn’t just make all of this even more painful.

Really, though, there was no way it wasn’t going to be embarrassing. Offering a fella some prototype hardware to… replace what he hadn’t had in a few centuries… if it weren’t for those big eyes and the fact that their relationship had been going fine for a few months already, he might have balked and taken it as a sign that he wasn’t enough for her as he was.

So he said he’d try it, and she had lit up like a damn Christmas tree and told him she already had ideas on how to sensitize it. Sensitize it? God, the more he thought about it the more he wasn’t sure how she was going to take the garden variety synth flesh and turn it into something that complex. He was sure she wasn’t going to give him something that was always oversensitive; he’d been a teenager once, thanks, and he had no interest in reliving that experience. So how the hell was it going to work?

It turned out, because Marlene’s coding skills are decent but not revolutionary, that the answer was, of all things, Curie.

And she’d gone ahead and asked for help with the programming chip before asking Nick, and when he barked about it, she said it was because she knew he’d get sore about it, and she was right, but that wasn’t the point.

He’d said some things he hadn’t meant - the words ‘if you want to be with a human, there’s at least five of them wandering around outside, go pick one’ had been the ones that had gotten a physical flinch out of her - and while Nick’s not always great at expressing the softer side of his feelings, he knows when he’s screwed up, and he’s not too proud to apologize.

The letter takes a few drafts. Dogmeat sits loyally by his feet at the desk and helps by chewing up the wadded up rejects. He says he still wishes she’d asked first before sharing her 'project’ with anybody else. (Curie’s like a kid to him. She’s so wide-eyed and fascinated by everything. And while her recent body upgrade makes her the perfect candidate to translate humanoid sensation to ones and zeroes, Nick can’t help but feel self-conscious that she knows about …that part of his relationship with Marlene, now. That they get up to things. That they want to get up to more.)

He overreacted, though, and shouted, and really made a mess of things. He writes that down too. Dogmeat seems disappointed that he doesn’t get to chew up and drool on the final draft as well, but he holds still when Nick tucks the letter in his collar and sends him out of his room.

(He might chase a radstag for an hour first, but that mutt always circles back around to his owner before long. It’s part of what Nick really likes about him.)

**

**

It’s late that night/early the next morning after several time-wasting diagnostics that Nick, unable to get his mind off of the whole subject, goes to the drawer and actually inspects the thing. He’d been too thorny the night she gave it to him to really give it much attention, but now in the privacy of his room, alone, he allows himself to be curious.

Marlene’s gotten good at reshaping the synth flesh without the aid of the professional tools the Institute must have. The seams where original skin meets repairs are almost invisible on Nick’s throat, shoulder, and chest, and the new casing for his right hand was actually treated somehow to match the aged appearance of his other. (Who takes the time to do that?)

This … appendage… it’s a good example of her work. The lower abdomen panel was clearly reclaimed and modified just enough to support a moving part. The sensor wiring has shiny new adapter that interrupts the feed loop and… that must be the part that has the … well, it’s technically probably firmware, but if he thinks about that pun too long he’s going to put the damn thing back in its drawer and never look at it again.

The actual, well, the. The new part. It looks. Well-made.

He’s not surprised she didn’t make something huge, for his ego or her satisfaction. She’d never want him to feel ridiculous, or worse, like a glorified toy. This is for _him to have_ , he thinks, not just for her to enjoy.

There must be servomotors that activate somehow and… harden it. It feels soft - deceptively delicate, really - and below it, she even added…

He feels strange touching it even though it’s not attached to anyone, even though it’s technically his.

He puts it back in the drawer.

**

It’s not like he’s ever needed anybody’s help to replace one of his own damn panels.

He shuts his eyes, wishing he had patrol tonight to give him an excuse to be out of his room.

**

It comes online instantly.

Nick’s not even done nestling the wires away and reattaching the panel before he starts to get requests for access to sensory data, to some files he can only assume handle … emotions? Sensations? He’s not sure - with a deep breath and a lot of trust he allows it all and scratches nervously at his stomach, wanting to make sure the … the regular parts of him are still working as expected. His touch feels the same as it did, not more or less intense, not incorrectly mapped, and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

He feels silly for having been so worked up over it. He feels ridiculous for lying on his bed, thighs apart and clothes pooled on the floor, waiting to feel overwhelmed or different or, well, anything, really.

It’s small and soft and lays against his thigh not completely unlike he remembers from his prewar days, and he looks at for a while, acclimating himself for a few moments before feeling too self-conscious and deciding just to pull his clothes back on. It’s fine. It’s not interrupting his baseline sensors or causing any conflicts in his background proprioceptive diagnostics, so he’ll just leave it for now.

Nick gets comfortable in his chair at his desk, starting a new general diagnostic to get it out of the way. The changes are probably going to throw a couple flags, and the sooner he acknowledges and dismisses them, the faster they’ll be gone and he can hopefully start to think about something else. He leans back and starts, faintly imagining what Marlene might look like when he comes to her later, to tell her that it works perfectly, that she’s kind of a genius with this tinkering stuff, that he really does appreciate her help even if he’s not used to getting fawned over.

She’ll light up. She’ll be hesitant at first but when she sees he’s not sour anymore, that he’s really sorry about the fight, she’ll smile that big smile and things will be alright again. She’ll probably ask for the diagnostic summaries, knowing her… for an egghead she’s such a knockout. He should tell her that more often.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts when an unfamiliar rap sounds against his door. “Come in,” he calls flatly, not looking up from the desk. He hears the drop of a heavy jacket and a bag. It’s probably another settler asking if he could take their dawn shift. It happens every so often and he doesn’t blame them. Humans aren’t wired to be awake and alert when -

“Mr. Valentine?”

Nick swivels in his chair. Marlene stands in front of the closed door in a familiar, shimmering silver dress, her hair up and her expression a composed mask of innocence.

She only wears that getup when they’re spending the night together and she wants to… well, Nick hardly minds playing a role, and as soon as Marlene learned his admiration of her skills went past the platonic, she’s been using it to her advantage, integrating it into their personal time.

It used to be borderline necessary to help Nick stop overthinking everything and actually let loose. More recently it’s just fun, and damn, he’s never going to turn down an opportunity to see her legs in something like this.

“Can I help you?” Nick asks, purposefully vague as he tries to get a handle on the situation. She’s looking him up and down like he’s a stranger, gait slowed and sensual, and yes, this is definitely a character. This is ‘apology accepted’, he realizes with a jolt. This is her way of saying 'let’s get back to normal’ without actually having to say it.

“Well, I was told this place had a gentleman for hire who wasn’t a half bad detective, but I’m actually here looking for something a little more… hands-on?” She slinks over, heels surprisingly quiet against the creaky hardwood floor (how does she do that?) and perching on the edge of his desk. His eyes travel up and struggle to meet her in the eye. She’s kept this dress around for a reason.

“Hands-on,” Valentine echoes. He’s playing himself. She’s playing a client. They’ve done this one before, but never quite like this. “Any chance you could be a little more specific, Ms…?”

“Galloway,” she says with a toss of her head. “Mr. Valentine, I’m going on a perilous journey through the Wastes, and I simply must have someone by my side who knows how to handle a gun… and who doesn’t mind a few rads.” She flutters her eyelashes. “Is it true you’re immune?”

An incredulous smile tugs at his mouth. A modified version of their trip to find Virgil? She’s being more playful than usual. She really has accepted his apology. “Yes, ma'am, but I’m not a mercenary for hire. A little violence comes along with solving crimes, but it’s not really my bread and butter.”

She pouts and leans back, supporting herself on one elbow as she lays across the desk and props her cheek on her hand. “You can’t make an exception?” She murmurs. “You know what mercenaries are like, Mr. Valentine. Such brutes.”

“I’m sure they’d step into line for a face like yours, miss.” It’s more fun to play it cool, like this. Never quite crossing the line, leaving himself open instead to be pinned down by her. She’s so good at it. And he can’t quite get enough of it.

“I don’t want just anyone by my side,” she says, and he wonders if this is an intentional reference to what he’d said the night before, what he hadn’t really meant. “I’d much prefer someone with…”

His eyebrows rise as her free hand slips from her waist to his tie, toying with it loosely before tugging him forward with just the barest hint of muscle. He leans forward as if she’d hauled him, eager to get closer. His nose is almost touching hers and he takes a stuttering breath he doesn’t need.

“….class,” she finishes, and closes the space between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [tumblr](http://buzzbites.tumblr.com/).


End file.
